Richard Henry Stoddard (1825–1903)

JERVIS, my friend, I envy you the art

Which you profess, and which possesses you,

To mimic Nature; unto her so true,

Your pictures are what she is to the heart,

The mystery of which it is a part,

That gladdens when we crush the vernal dew,

And saddens when leaves fall, and flowers are few;

Nor quite forsakes us in the noisy mart

Whence she is banished, save in slips of sky

That swim in mist, or drip in dreary rain,

No glimpse of peaks far off, nor forests nigh,

Only dark streets, strange forms, a barren pain;

Till to my wall I turn a longing eye,

When you restore me mountains, woods again!